Brush Fire

Anyway, it’s never who you thought it was or what it meant. Artists are the worst – they turn abstract ideas to thick cement and then forget why no one gets their message. Anyway, a bit of vodka and the sting is lessened – today, it’s Inca Kola and tomorrow maybe NesTea. Everything is easier as long as it stays sunny – the dry ash on the breeze would make your cute little nose runny if you were here with me poking, stoking out the bits of ash. We aren’t even as connected as the wood turned basalt black by the red coals at the bottom – no, not nearly so close. Even the wood consented, in its burning coughed an oath to all that may incinerate it – let it emerge venerated from the embers like the phoenix, and be taken to where the wind ends. No, not nearly so close; men have died for less but most would be ashamed to dignify by name simultaneous dreaming that just gets us through our days.